at two thirty in the morning
from the window I see him
sitting at the counter before a
cup of coffee
average joe, salt and pepper, bristly forearms, twisting on a
toothpick, scratching his chin with his thumb
staring off into yesterday
one by one men sit like that
all night as the bus goes on down
Belmont and just like the straight guys I only
go for the young and pretty ones and wonder why
at two thirty in the morning
No comments:
Post a Comment